


Shame

by bela013



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bela013/pseuds/bela013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the promo pictures. Melisandre gets tired of hearing Stannis talk about his knight, lost in the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame

Everything about this was tedious to her. The room, his confused looks, the loose tone of sadness in his voice. Words of the same speech, over and over again. Melisandre looked at the king and tried to think of other things, anything but this dull talk of knights and smugglers.

Maybe, if the man in front of her was not the king; no, not king, Melisandre cared nothing for kings. If he wasn't so important to her own purposes, she would have silenced him as she saw fit.

Images of blood running down his throat, covering his graying stubble, and tainting his dark tunic. Letting the stag run in its own red blood heart, just like his own sigil. All of it, taking shape in the witch's mind. But the king was Azor Ahai, and she was to protect him, not kill him. Not even R'hllor will protect her if she harms his prized champion. Should Azor Ahai rise from his own death, as a bloodied corpse, God shall have no mercy on her soul.

Circling him, Melisandre decides on an different approach, one that will not crown her in treason, even if they find blood involved. Her long fingers caresses his hair, grabbing a hand full, digits on his scalp.

She pushes it, just like in her imagination, but it's not a blade that she presses to his neck, not up that she pulls. She tugs his head sideways, hand in his chin, and lowering her head to his. With the mouth open, ready to scream at her, she kisses him. Tongue deep into his mouth.

Due to the nature of their posture and how uncomfortable it was, she lets him go. Not before making it clear to him, how she could have held him there forever. Out of breath and angry, Azor Ahai rises from the chair, he made his throne. He was to scream at her, again. So the red witch advances on him, to make sure that she'll hear no more of lost knights for the day.

If there was anyone else in the room, they would think of the easiness that a woman such as the priestess, with her round face and big eyes, manhandle the king. But there was no one, to see or to stop her from pushing him, knees to the floor.

Bending over him, arms wrapped on his middle, it almost looked like a tender embrace. Even so, she knelled between his bent legs, her long frame allowing her face to fit right into the crock of his neck. It was pride that prevented the king from calling for guards.

Her teeth sunk into his neck, but Azor Ahai wouldn't scream for that. Drawing up his breath, he gets ready for her abuse. For the way her hand found its way to his crotch, squeezing him tight. That, was what made him want to scream. But the pain was mixed with pleasure, since she stopped to run her fingers back and forth from his navel.

Shame. Shame for being pinned down by a woman. Shame for being treated like a toy by her. Shame for enjoying it, and stiffing under her sharp nails. He supported his body, hands and knees in the stone cold floor, the only warmth was from his cheeks, or from the the woman who bumped her hips onto his, every now and them.

Pulling the strings of his breeches, no care for decorum, or how his breath hitched and his cheeks turned a shade deeper, Melisandre had him in the palm of her hand.

Was this treason, was this punishment delivered by the gods, her god? The mind of the king was getting confuse. He wanted her to stop. But now it was his hips that moved, and when she bumped into him, it was not indignation that made him huff. It was beneath him to beg, for release, be it from her, or from his desire. He wanted things to end. He just didn't knew how.

Those things in her mouth, sharp and white, dig into his neck once more. This time he give in. Arms too weak to support him, he is left on his knees, face down, hiding in his folded arms. How can he conquer a kingdom when a woman could have in the floor, in wait of more.

He knows he will be done, and it won't take long. She must know it too, for her fingers leave him, undoing the tight hold she had around him. Not for long though. Grabbing lower, squeezing every protest and complaint the king still might have. And when he reaches his limit, since her touch is still some what enjoyed, she holds him in place. Drying him up, of his shame and frustrations.

Without very much of an warning, she lets him go for good, and push him away. Lying in stomach, drenched in sweat and in white liquid shame, the king is not king, nor he is Azor Ahai. He is just a man, taking comfort in the hand that leave a trail of pain and pleasure, that caresses his head, and the warm body that sits by him, in the cold stone floor.


End file.
